Friend & Foe

by Shirley McKay

  ‘Mind where ye pit yer feet!’ she snapped.

  ‘Ye are to gang to the pottinger, for to fetch a salve of bellis consolida, and hae him put the cost of it onto the doctor’s reckoning,’ Paul informed her cautiously, conscious of the soldier standing at his back.

  Canny rolled her eyes. ‘Whit sort of bells is that?’

  ‘Daisies, to you.’

  The lass heaved a humph. She was not accustomed to answering to Paul and, true to form and habit, she answered with an argument. ‘Since ye ken a’ aboot it, why not go yersel?’

  In a different sort of household, there would be no contest. Paul was Giles’ servant, Canny Bett was Meg’s, and Paul would have as clear dominion over Canny Bett as would have his master over his own wife. But, somehow, in this house, that was not how things turned out; both Meg and Canny Bett were minded to be obstinate, strong in wit and will, and both out-flummoxed Paul.

  Paul would have preferred if this had been less evident. But Harry Petrie waited, civil and respectful, at the kitchen door, a decent man was that. He had taken off his hat, and held it in his hands, and he had wiped his boots, so as not to add to the dirt upon the floor.

  ‘Wha’s ta make the dennar, then?’ was Canny’s parting shot.

  ‘The neeps an’ that will wait. Ye will not long be gone.’

  Underneath the floor, the sound of scraping stilled, and a head poked, whistling, halfway through the hatch, followed by a clod of earth.

  ‘Ye are to stop now,’ called Paul, grasping at the lull which had broken in the hammering, ‘an’ come up fer refection.’

  ‘An’ come up fer what?’

  ‘For a brek, an’ a drink.’

  ‘Ach, billie,’ the builder said, ‘Nae need for that. The doctor left a barrel doon, maist gentle an’ maist mannerly, for when we hae a thirst.’

  The head ducked down again. And the hammering resumed. Paul knelt down above the hole, and bellowed like a bull calf. ‘For pity, will ye stop?’

  ‘Eh? Whit’s that ye say?’

  ‘Come up.’

  The scraping shovel stopped, and there was silence for a moment, before the head appeared once more in the opening, and a pair of shoulders followed it, and heaved out to the deck. The second man came after, wiping off the sweat. ‘Whit is the matter now?’

  ‘Ye are to break off for a while, and go out on to the cliff. Take that pile of fuillie with you,’ Paul gestured at the muck.

  The workman scratched his beard. ‘Wha says so, then?’ He looked back at his friend, who frowned and shook his head. ‘The maister says to dig until the dinner hour.’ The master of the works had already quit the site, and left the heavy groundwork to his hireling labourers, the work requiring less of skill than strength.

  ‘The mistress says,’ urged Paul. ‘She maun hae peace an’ quiet, for to tend a soldier.’

  The words did not sound right, and Paul had cause to curse as soon as they were out. The builder nudged his friend. ‘Tending tae a soldier? The guid doctor’s wife?’

  Canny Bett intruded, in a high, indignant voice. ‘Ye mauuna speak o’ her in that foul filthsum voice, for wan hair on that lass’s head is worth the weight of you. And that were lourd enough, lubbard that ye are.’

  ‘Aye, is that right? An’ ye wad tend a man, full tenderly, I doubt.’ The builder leant across, and groped at Canny playfully. There was nothing in the faintest playful in her slap.

  ‘Ye hard wee bitter bitch.’ He caught her by the wrists. ‘I’ll mak ye tender yet.’

  Canny gave a screech, less of fear then fury, swore and stamped her feet.

  ‘Let the lassie go.’

  Paul knew in his heart that he should have protected her. He knew the words, and spoke them, clearly, in his head. Yet when he heard them said, it was Harry Petrie said them. He stepped out from the doorway, to confront the builder, brave and calm and quietly. The builder turned to stare at him, dropping Canny Bett. Canny kicked him in the shin, shot Harry back a glance that bore no trace of gratitude, glared at Paul and fled, presumably to follow through the errand to the pothecar. They heard the front door slam.

  ‘Wha the fuck are you?’

  ‘A futeman fae the castle guard. And if ye want to tak it further, step wi’ me outside.’

  The two men squared up warily. The workman was the bigger of the two, broad and tall and flabby, with more brawn than wit. Harry’s frame was small and balanced, muscular and lean. The outcome of a fight between them could not be assured, though the consequence of fighting would be ruinous to both. The builder’s colleague plucked his sleeve. ‘Leave, it, Jockie,’ he suggested.

  Jockie dropped his fist. ‘A wee brek, ye say?’ he spat back at Paul.

  Paul agreed, hoarsely. ‘My mistress has promised ye no loss of pay.’

  ‘There is a barrow in the yard there filled up wi’ dirt. We can tak it to the shore,’ the two men agreed. But Jockie hissed, in passing, ‘We are not settled yet.’

  Left with Harry Petrie, Paul did not know what to say. He coloured in his shame. But Harry gave no hint that Paul had disappointed him. Rather the reverse.

  ‘Tis a grand thing,’ he admired, ‘to have kenning o’ the Latin, and a clear command of such a house as this. All my life, I have done what I wis telt, with a boot about my arse and a rope about my back, for want of wit and scholarcraft. Sir, I envy you.’

  Paul found a pair of beakers in the kitchen almery and blew them free from dust. He poured them both a cup of ale. ‘You do not care to be a futeman, then?’

  ‘I am no a futeman, truth be told. I am a sentry in the castle guard. Our work is to defend the precinct o’ the bishop’s court, and sometimes we are called upon to keep peace in the town, but maistly we stand and watch, and watch and stand, and clean our swords and guns; and our sergeant sends us up an’ doon on marching tricks and exercises, and we cannae fire the guns, for we may have no powder, save with the permission of the king, so God alone may ken what service we might do, a dozen unarmed men with one half-crippled archer,’ Harry Petrie laughed. ‘This ale is douce and sweet, and you, sir, are a gentle man. Your guid complice, too.’

  ‘My complice?’ echoed Paul.

  ‘Your partner, Doctor Locke.’

  Paul was warmly gratified by Harry Petrie’s flattery. The soldier took him for a learned man. And why then, should he not? Paul had picked up many things from the doctor and his wife. Small knowledge was a danger, Doctor Locke believed; his wife contended, teach him, then. Paul felt for Giles and Meg a fondness mixed with pride, that verged at times on pity and exasperation, and at other times to something close to love. He doubted they could manage well without his help.

  He was wearing, too, one of Hew’s old coats, a doublet sewn from light blue silk, and though the tail and neck were not the latest cut, he knew that Harry Petrie would not realise this; soldiers were not noted for their fashion sense. He had taken Paul on trust, and made the same mistake as had the widow Bannerman, when Paul had turned up at her ailing husband’s bedside, with a phial of physick sent by Giles. What little did it matter, if she took him for a complice of the learned doctor, for but for want of learning that was what he was. It had not been his intention to deceive her. Many servants wore their master’s cast off clothes. The fact that Hew was not his master was a point of fact, that could not count against him; since Hew would keep no man by him but for the frugal Nicholas, it made perfect sense that they should come to Paul. The doctor’s clothes were practical, distinctive and voluminous, ill-fitted to adapting to the role of hand-me-downs. Hew was far more slender, and had better taste.

  ‘He is not, exactly, my partner.’ Paul felt compelled to honesty as he refilled their cups.

  ‘But you have his confidence,’ Harry said, persuasively, ‘and that is a thing to admire.’ Paul considered. ‘True enough.’

  ‘A man might be a lord, in service to the king, or like the archbishop, in service to God. A servant may become a king, if only he will rise to it. The Stewarts were th
emselves no more than stewards to a king.’

  ‘Even so,’ protested Paul, ‘I am not servant to a king.’ He was encouraged all the same, and wondered whether he might reasonably construct himself, before the widow Bannerman, as steward of his master’s house.

  ‘I have no doubt,’ Harry went on, ‘that ye maun be privy to all manner of rare things. And being in your master’s confidence, are steward of his trust, secretar of his heart.’

  ‘Very right an’ true,’ Paul nodded, full fair pleased with that.

  ‘Then you are a lucky man, that does not hae a flock of masters baying at your back. I answer to a pack o’ them – sergeant, steward, secretar – all wear boots fair thick enough to dint a beggar’s arse, and all have different notions how things maun be done. The chain is long and tangled, and small comfort at its end; if a beggar does not jump when he hears it rattle he will feel it pull. Which is a lesson young John Richan has been finding hard to learn. Tis hardest for the beggar at the far end of the chain.’

  Harry had veered off, to peer into the chasm that had opened in the floor. ‘So what work are they doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘They are laying conduit pipes, to take foul waters out to sea. It is a scheme of the doctor’s invention,’ Paul told him, with a spark of pride. He answered, after all, to a fine and clever man. And that, if nothing else, reflected well on him.

  ‘Ingenious,’ said Harry. ‘Shall we take a look?’

  ‘Go down there, you mean?’ Paul replied, more doubtfully. ‘Why wad we dae that?’

  ‘I dinna want to put you out, but my father was a builder too. He worked for the archbishop Hamilton. And I think it very likely that he built this house.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Paul marvelled. ‘Ye must tell the doctor. He will want to hear that. He will show you round.’

  ‘And that wad be a treat. But,’ the soldier frowned, ‘the knot is, that he is not here. And I have an apprehension, that this undermining may be somewhat hazardous. The warkmen ye have here have neither wit nor skill. They are knocking down a wall, from what I saw and heard, and knocking down a wall requires a deal of both. My fear is, if thae clubbit blunderers dinna mind their step, the hale house will come down. That is the sum of it, plain.’

  ‘The doctor is a clever man, and he employs an architectour, and a man of works. He would not let that happen,’ Paul asserted.

  ‘No’ willingly, of course. But where are they three masters now, while these great lourdans stamp and hack? Tis plain enough to see that you are left in charge. Trust me, sir, it takes but one fool wi’ a sledger an’ the hale pile tumbles down. It happened to my faither, and I would not for the world see it happen to your friends. That bonny babby too.’

  ‘What happened to your dad?’

  ‘A wall that he was taking down fell back and down on him. It took him days to die.’

  ‘Jesu,’ gasped Paul. ‘Then we maun evacuate. I will rouse the mistress.’

  ‘Peace now,’ Harry soothed, ‘there is nae need for that. We need not cause alarm, until we are assured of it. The danger is not present, while they are not knocking at it. I will tak a look, and see if it is safe. It is a thing I ken about. We learn it in our training.’

  For when it came to sieges, Paul supposed. He consented, nervously. ‘I will come with you.’

  ‘There is no need.’

  But Paul was determined that he would not be a coward, and shrink back a second time. The assurance of the household rested in his hands. When Harry climbed the ladder down into the laich house, he followed close behind.

  The labourers had left a lantern hanging by the hatch. Harry took it down, and held the light aloft, to illuminate the room. There was one small window facing to the west, where the upper level rose above the ground, and a new vent for the chimney cut in the back wall. The labourers were lowering the floor, digging out a solid foot of earth. The cellar was foreshortened by a wall of stone, that heavily abridged the footprint of the house, reducing it by half, and it was this that the workmen were beginning to demolish, starting at the top. It was too dark to see into the space beyond. Harry felt his way along the stone. ‘Now there’s a thing,’ he whistled, ‘I did not expect.’

  ‘What’s that?’ worried Paul. ‘Is the structure hazardous?’

  ‘Not hazardous at all. This wall serves no purpose, and is holding nothing up. Therefore its demolition can bring nothing down with it.’

  ‘That’s a good thing, is it no?’

  ‘Good enough. But curious. Why then, build a wall?’

  ‘I could ask the doctor,’ Paul suggested.

  ‘Well, now, and ye could,’ Harry’s tone implied that this was not a good idea. ‘Does he like you to come down here?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Paul considered, ‘he has not said agin it, in sa many words.’ Yet he admitted to himself, his master had discouraged it.

  ‘Ask yourself the question,’ Harry went on cunningly, ‘where are the pipes?’

  ‘What pipes?’ echoed Paul.

  ‘The conduit pipes, ye said. For Doctor Locke’s experiment.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that he will fetch them once the floor is dug.’ Paul hesitated, thinking. ‘Well then, I suppose . . . I will not tell the doctor, then. For since there is no danger here, there is no cause to trouble him.’

  ‘I think that ye do right. The main thrist an’ the outcome is, our minds are set at rest. Our fear need not concern him.’ Harry hung the lantern back up on its hook. ‘The warkmen will be back soon. Shall we go up?’

  Paul felt an alliance with his new-found friend, with whom he had defended and made safe the house. Recklessly, he ventured, ‘Shall we try the wine? For I may use it freely, if an’ when I like.’

  This was not strictly true. Paul was a blabbermouth in drink, and whatever Giles allowed him was carefully controlled. But the new season’s wine Giles had taken to the college, and what remained in the barrels was becoming sour and old, and Giles would scarcely quibble if Paul told him it was spoiled. It was never in Paul’s mind to deceive his master, nor would he wish to steal from him, but he felt that he was somehow owed a drink of wine, to recompense his trouble and his fright over the wall. He poured a pint into a stoup and stirred it for good measure with a corner from the sugar loaf. ‘To your guid health, sir; pass your cup.’

  Harry was impressed. ‘God bless ye, sir, and yours, for I will not say no.’ He did not seem to mind the sharpness of the malmsey, which caught Paul’s throat like vinegar. ‘No sound fae the loft,’ he remarked. ‘I hope the laddie Richan hasna died o’ shame . . . I doubt that he was strippit at a woman’s beck, since he was a babby nourished by his ma.’

  His tone was playful, not unkind, moving Paul to ask, ‘I suppose a man like you has many a sweet lass – they seem to like a soldier.’

  Harry smiled at him. ‘Many o’ them do.’

  ‘Can I ask your advice?’

  ‘Of course ye can, my son! What dae you want to ken?’

  Paul drained his sour wine quickly, dregs and scum and all, and looked up from the cup. Harry was, in truth, a proper sort of friend. And that was soldiers for you. They had been together, on an operation, faced a present danger. They were friends in arms. ‘There is this woman, see. The widow Bannerman.’

  ‘Widows are brave,’ Harry agreed. He reached out for the jug, and poured himself another cup of wine, without waiting to be asked. ‘Ripe and rich and rare, and brimming with experience. I recommend a widow, if ye have not practised much.’

  ‘She has her own wee house, and a bit of land. Her husband died young, and they were not long marrit. And she has nae bairns.’

  ‘So much the better,’ Harry smiled.

  It was not coming out quite as Paul had meant it to. It sounded like he wanted her for her house and land, and did not want the burden of another limmar’s bairns, when that wasn’t it at all. He would have loved Jonet Bannerman if she bided in a cowshed wi’ a pack of wailing weans, and opened up his arms to all her snot-nosed progeny
if that was how it was. It would be simple then.

  ‘I took physick to her when her man was sick,’ he was trying to explain. ‘And when he died, I came again, to offer my condolences. Not because the doctor sent me, but on my own account. She thinks I am his prentice, see. She thinks I will one day have a practice of my own. She does not know I cannot read. I did not set out to deceive her.’

  ‘Aye? What is the matter then? She will not go to bed with you, unless she hears you read to her?’

  ‘Naught like that. The matter is,’ confided Paul, ‘that I want to marry her. What should I do? Will she understand it, if I tell the truth?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Harry shrugged, draining his draught to the dregs. He wiped his wet lips with the back of his hand. ‘A fine poison, that.’

  Paul felt disappointment, cold inside his stomach, like a lump of lead. He had misjudged the soldier, laying bare his soul to him. Harry had no conscience; he was not in love, and the widow Bannerman was far beyond his ken.

  ‘Mebbe,’ Harry said, ‘I will see how John is doing. Tell ye what, though – d’ye ever tak a drink in the tavern in the wynd? There is a lass there that will answer to your needs, and ye can get your practice in, and forget your troubles for a while.’

  ‘I do not . . .’ Paul began. The place that Harry spoke of was forbidden him by Giles, since he had drunk there once too deep, and let loose his tongue. He had tried the tap wench too, and found himself slapped back. ‘I went there once,’ he mumbled. ‘I did not find much luck with it.’

  ‘Ye dinna ken the ropes. The lassie at the bar is a friend of mine. She is my cousin, Bess. When you are there next, say to her that ye are mates wi’ her cousin Harry Petrie. And you shall have your drink, and what you will besides.’

  ‘That is awfy kind of ye,’ Paul acknowledged doubtfully, for he was not convinced that this would help with Jonet Bannerman.

  Harry Petrie winked at him. ‘Courage to ye, friend. For ye are brave and fine, and halfway to a scholar. We will mak a lover of ye yet.’